I am 13. I am floating in an haze of lilac hue- feels thick, I am smothered. She is talking- a thereapist who's name I have already forgotten. Actually I don't think it ever registered. I have brain damage. My brain has always felt like it's taken an epic hit. Nothing really makes it into this misfiring, spurring dome and if it does it rots there in the grey matter, small and pointless. The book I am supposed to be silent reading in class always goes un-conceptualized. I read sentences over and over. Math, geography, science...
Therapy woman is gentle and seems not to be a threat. But I am beyond such reasoning. Everything, every person is a threat. I am here becasue I am supposed to spill about the diary entries that my mother read. I found her in my room, sitting on my bed, slumped over as though she had cried. Really, she was angry. Why had I made him do these things? What was she supposed to do now? If this got out, how could she stay with him? Were these things even true? Had he had actual intercourse with me or did he just touch me? I remember these quetions in resprospect. In actuality I was hearing them through my own screaming. I was not ready for this.
Years go by in moments and I am in the waiting room again. She is telling my mother that there is no way to get into my mind- there may never be a way. She describes catatonia, split-personality disorder and other possible melt-downs that will come of pushing me too hard too soon. I am lost, pieces of me scattered in some dimly lit nowhere- billions of shards, never to be whole again. This news does not bother me. Good! Leave me alone.
It is two decades later when I finally speak to this woman. Her name spilled to me in a dream as if from a never ending pitcher of sappish memories- yet another Post Traumatic Stress Disorder conglomerate of happenings, names, faces. I must have, in my reptilian brain, filed her name away. Being hyper-vigilant is what had gotten me through those 11 years of unspeakable abuse.
My call to her is the beginning of my investigation. I am ready to take action. I am still just inside of the statute of limitations on my case. I am thinking of taking it to a lawyer. I can only think that she will know the details of that day, though it has been a long, long journey to the present. Somehow I am still here and I feel an anger roiling deep inside.
She remembers me. She remembers because it was a "very difficult and tenuous case". My mother had called her after letting her fingers do the walking through the yellow pages. When we had arrived at her office, my mother and step-father went with one person and I had ended up inside of her purple womb-room. The part I never knew was that she had been the one to call Social Rehabilitative Services. She told me that until my case, it had never been a struggle to do so after abuse confessions. But for me, the idea that agents would come to our house and question me made her question the system- the safety of the immediacy of such actions. The very reasons why she would not "treat" me were the things that kept her awake at night wondering how things had panned out after she had done her legal bidding.
Things didn't pan out so well.